


Til the Day I Die

by fandomfan



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:04:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomfan/pseuds/fandomfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray can't sleep.  Brad helps him out.  There's no porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Til the Day I Die

**Author's Note:**

> When [2ndary_author](http://2ndary-author.livejournal.com/) prompted "Generation Kill (any pairing, or none at all): lullaby" in a recent hurt/comfort fic party, here's the scenario that popped into my head.
> 
> (As should be clear from the "my head" part, this is fiction. Also it makes me no money.)

The phosphorescent numbers tell Brad it's 3:23.

In the morning.

He is in his own bed.

This is not a time he should have to be conscious in this AO.

It's time he shared this fact with the cause of his wakefulness.

"Ray, it's 3:23 in the morning. That's 11:23 Zulu. Though it may be that on the farm you have to rise this early to fuck the goats before anyone else is up to get there first, normal civilized people whose parents are not also their cousins or grandparents, do not take kindly to being awake at this time of day."

Ray rolls over to face him. His tattoos and his eyes stand out stark against his pale skin in the dark. Brad is Recon; he observes everything and admires nothing. That second part is harder when it comes to Ray.

"Good for me I'm not schtupping a normal civilized person, then, huh?" Ray says, not a trace of recent sleep in his voice. "Good for me I'm schtupping a vicious Devil Dog who's used to being awake at all hours and accomplishing all kinds of impressively astonishing feats on no sleep at all."

"Don’t try for the Yiddish," is Brad's response. "It's just sad."

"But I'm learning the language of your people, Bradley, so that I may one day be welcomed into your one-God-with-no-name-loving family for such celebratory occasions as Shabbat dinners, Passover seders, and niecely and nephewly Bat and/or Bar Mitzvahs."

Ray bats his lashes innocently, but Brad is fluent in Person by now, so he translates.

"Are you implying in your own shortbus-riding, putting-the-special-in-special-education way that your anxiety about dinner with my parents tomorrow is keeping you from sleep?"

Ray puts on an exaggerated face of offended pride. "That would be ridiculous! I've met your parents plenty of times. Not to mention I would never be bothered by such a–"

Brad cuts him off with two fingers on his mouth. They're gentle fingers, though, and they stroke softly, once, before retreating. Brad rests his hand on Ray's shoulder.

"For some mysterious reason, my parents like you. Possibly it has to do with the fact that when you're not out of your head on uppers and you've taken your ADD medication, you carry on intelligent, well-informed, humorous conversation. Possibly it has to do with the fact that you are pleasing to their only son. Possibly it has to do with the fact that you're the first person I've been with since Julie that I've wanted them to get to know."

Ray's trying to keep up his façade of indifference, but instead he just looks open and vulnerable, and dammit if that doesn't make Brad want to wrap around his smaller body and keep anyone from fucking with him. So he does, pulling Ray in close to be the little spoon against him. It's a position Ray often complains about, but Brad knows he not-so-secretly loves.

When Ray's tucked firmly in, Brad flattens one palm over his heart and synchronizes their breathing.

"It'll be fine, Ray," he says, quietly. "It's always been fine when you've been there as my friend."

"Yeah, but–"

He goes on as though Ray hasn't said anything. "No reason it'll be any different when you're there as more than that."

Ray lets himself be held in silence for a few minutes, but his body is still wired with tension.

No help for it, then. Brad starts singing, low and rough.

_A company, always on the run._

Ray rustles in his arms. "What are you…?"

Brad keeps on going.

_Destiny is the rising sun._

"You're singing me to sleep, Brad, you incurable romantic, you."

Brad presses his face into the top of Ray's head and continues singing quietly, breath stirring the soft strands of Ray's hair.

_I was born, six-gun in my hand,  
Behind a gun, I'll make my final stand._

And for the chorus, Ray, of course, joins in.

_That's why they call me..._  
Bad company, I can't deny.  
Bad company, until the day I die.  
Until the day I die. Until the day I die... 

Brad trails off. Ray is calmer now, humming softly and then subsiding into silence himself. Brad kisses the back of his head and holds on tight.

"It'll be fine, Ray," he whispers. "Now sleep. That's an order."

"Aye aye, sir," Ray whispers back, and there's a smile stretching the words. He settles himself along Brad's body and lets out a long breath. Brad keeps watch as the clock numbers change only a few more times before Ray is breathing deep and even, and then he lets himself relax and follows his own order.


End file.
